


Launch Off

by marysutherland



Series: Harry/Molly sequence [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/F, Femslash, historians have murky pasts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-18
Updated: 2011-10-18
Packaged: 2017-10-24 17:57:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,923
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/266286
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marysutherland/pseuds/marysutherland
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dr Harriet Watson, London's dorkiest historian, is once again forced to leave the eighteenth century, and confront the outside world. This time, while sober.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Harry didn't really like book launch parties, but she could hardly miss this one. But it meant dressing smartly, and behaving, and not drinking. Definitely not drinking. And though her friends would be there, there would also be people there who were...not her enemies, that was too dramatic. But the people with whom her historical disagreements had a nasty, personal, edge. And the ones for whom it was a mark against her right from the start that she was a woman, and a lesbian, and butch.

She could bring as many guests as she liked, but even if her mum had still been up to coming, she could hardly drag her to the launch of a book like this one. John had agreed to come, but Sherlock had wimped out, and a lot of her non-academic friends had turned out in the last six months really to be Clara's friends, and hadn't wanted to stay in contact with her after the divorce. Which was why she was going to be rash and invite Molly.

She was probably going to get turned down by Molly as well, and justifiably so. She had messed things up with her about as comprehensively as possible. She'd gone to Molly's party, promptly fallen for her, had tried to impress her and pretty much failed. Then she'd drunk so much she'd blacked out, woken up in Molly's bed and seduced her. Admittedly, Molly had definitely enjoyed that bit. But then Molly had had to escort her back to 221B to dry out, like some miscreant teenager. It was no wonder she hadn't heard anything from Molly, and Harry hadn't been able to think of an excuse to get back into contact until now. It was alarming to realise just how many of her previous dating strategies had relied on alcohol in some way.

So she braced herself, and went to Barts, and asked for the mortuary. Because e-mail was too impersonal, and if she got Molly's number from John it might appear a bit stalkerish, and she didn't want to frighten Molly off again.

Though she didn't feel at all frightening as she stepped into the chill of the mortuary. And it was absolutely no problem to behave sensibly with Dr Molly Hooper, with her white coat, and her tied-back hair, and her strong handshake, and her knowledge about how to deal with corpses, real current corpses, not just historical ones.

"Nice to see you, Harry," said Molly, smiling, because Molly was like that, and probably smiled even at people who had behaved terribly towards her. "How are you? Are you back in your flat yet?"

Oh, of course, the ceiling of her flat collapsing had been how she'd ended up meeting Molly in the first place. It was no surprise she hadn't been at her best at the party, given she'd been in John's borrowed clothes, and probably with plaster dust still in her hair.

"Yes, I've been back for several weeks," she said. "But there's still something that needs to be done, so I have to move out again for a day or two next week. They're p-plastering, I think, or is it doing something more to the joists? If interior rooms still have joists. There's this case I remember from the 1830s where the witness saw a murder being committed in the room below, because there was a crack in the floorboards, but they couldn't get a clear view of the culprit, because the joists were in the way..." She tailed off. So much for the adverse effects of plaster theory, she thought. "I'm sorry, I didn't really come here to talk about m-m-murder and house design."

"I'm better on murder," said Molly, and smiled again. "So you're back in your flat, and you're...getting on OK?"

Harry translated this out of Molly-speak to mean 'Are you still drinking?', but couldn't think of how to translate her answer back.

"I haven't had a drink for the last six weeks," she said.

"That's good," said Molly, almost beaming, "Well done, you!"

"46 days and counting, actually," Harry said, and then winced inwardly. That wasn't quite as bad as 'from the day after I met you', but almost, because Molly probably could remember the exact day she'd met Harry, since it had been her birthday party. And you were not supposed to say 'I haven't had a drink since I met you', because it was against the rules, because it suggested that the other person was responsible for you stopping drinking. Which you apparently weren't supposed to say even if it was true, because it might encourage co-dependence or something . Harry had never been one for sticking to rules before, but being a recovering addict somehow seemed to require rather a lot of them.

Molly was looking at her patiently, and had possibly not yet worked out the significance of 46 days, so Harry ought to say something, explain why she had come...

"Sherlock's off in the post-mortem room," said Molly abruptly. "He's doing an experiment on Mr Johnson, the late Mr Johnson. I'll show you where he is."

"I didn't come to see Sherlock," said Harry hastily.

"Oh, I presumed...he sometimes has to be...fetched, he doesn't always reply to text messages , or if people try and pass on messages via me."

"I came to see you. I wanted to invite you to a book launch."

"I've never been to one of those."

"OUP, Oxford University Press are doing it."

"Sounds exciting!"

"It's, it's not actually a launch like...it's not a best-seller or anything glamorous," said Harry. "It's just a bunch of historians in a room in Senate House, and it's only cheap wine and n-nibbles, because academic p-publishers are stingy. And just so you know, it's a book about a prostitute, an eighteenth century p-prostitute, so that might not be the sort of thing you go for."

Molly's brows creased. "Someone's written a book about an eighteenth century prostitute," she said patiently, "and you thought I might like to go to the book launch?"

"Um, well, actually, it's me who wrote it, and her name was Phoebe Phillips, and she is-" Harry broke off, because now was not the right time for her three minute spiel on why Phoebe Phillips' story was really significant to knowledge of eighteenth century history. She licked her lips and said, as coherently as she could: "It's the launch of m-my new book, and I would very m-m-much like it if you were able to come."

"You've written a book and OUP are publishing it?" said Molly, "That's incredible."

"I, it's my second book," Harry said, "and I edited one as well, but that was n-not so good."

"I didn't realise you'd written several books," Molly said, and Harry remembered at last that there were some people who didn't write books, who might even think it was impressive to be published. She'd been impressed with herself once, before she realised that having a book with her name on the spine didn't stop her being the same clueless and clumsy Harry Watson as before.

"I would love to come to your book launch, Harry," Molly went on. "I'm sorry I haven't been in touch before, after the party I mean, find out how you were. It's just I've been rather busy."

Harry was about to ask whether the busyness was due to seasonal patterns in death rates, when she realised this was just Molly being polite. "You've got a very responsible job here," she said instead. "It must be quite difficult sometimes."

"It's not quite what I expected when I was a little girl giving injections to my teddy bears," said Molly brightly, "But you get used to it, and it's important to do it right. Would you, would you like to see round?"

"That would be interesting," said Harry automatically, and then realised it would be, because Molly probably wouldn't mind her asking strange questions. "I would like that."

"I'll try not to make it too creepy," said Molly, smiling, "but it is really interesting, at least I think so."

***

"And through there," said Molly, "is the post-mortem room. Sherlock's doing an experiment, so we might just go and look in from the windows, we don't want to disturb him. If you just go along the corridor, and then to the right..."

Harry looked into the room, all gray and full of shiny steel, and in the midst of it, Sherlock, in a black suit, staring at a man's body. A man's body out of which blood was streaming in gaudy rivulets...

It was at that point that she blacked out.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What could possibly go wrong inviting someone you're keen on to attend the launch party of your book? If you're Dr Harriet Watson, you could faint while being given an impromptu tour by Molly of the mortuary...

There was a warm body pressed against Harry's, and strong arms were wrapped around her, carrying her effortlessly. She opened her eyes, and met Sherlock's sardonic gaze.

"Harry, you're an idiot," he said, deposited her efficiently on a swivel chair, and disappeared. When she opened her eyes again, she realised she was in an office. Molly's office, presumably, judging by the incongruous picture of dachshunds on the wall. Molly hurried in, her face concerned.

"Would you like some water? Or I could do you some tea, if that would help?"

"Water would be fine," Harry croaked.

Molly reappeared in a minute with a glass. As she put it down, her other hand briefly grasped Harry's shoulder comfortingly.

"I'm terribly sorry," she said, "I didn't know Sherlock was going to do that, he said something about bloodstains, but not that kind of horror movie scenario. And I had no idea about your haemophobia."

"It's not really a phobia," Harry said, as calmly as she could, given her racing heart. "I'm OK reading about things involving blood, and m-mostly photos and even films now. It's just actual blood still makes m-me a bit queasy sometimes."

"There's always one or two in each year's intake of students here who have problems," Molly said, sitting down at the desk opposite her. "I should have asked."

"I should have said," Harry replied. "Only it sounds so feeble, especially when I'm interested in m-m-m-medical history." She looked up slightly dizzily at Molly, and then decided she needed to concentrate on drinking her water. And breathing.

"I never liked dermatology," Molly replied. "Corpses are fine, but some of the rashes, you start to feel itchy yourself. Please don't worry, it's not the first time I've had people faint down here. Just sit there, and don't get up till you feel better."

It was quite peaceful just sitting there in silence, Harry thought, once she felt slightly more certain she wasn't going to collapse again. She looked up to see Molly watching her, alertly, the sort of professionally compassionate look she sometimes got from John, when he wasn't feeling annoyed with her. She remembered something John had told her – that when a murder victim had to be identified, Lestrade always tried to get it done on Molly's shift, because she was the best of the Barts' pathologists at dealing with grieving relatives.

She managed a slightly wobbly smile at Molly, who leaned over and patted her hand briefly, and then abruptly said:

"I, I really have to go now, I have a meeting. And I'm not really supposed to leave visitors down here on their own. But if you'd like a bit longer sitting quietly, Sherlock's here, so he can see you out. I'll get him to promise he won't do anything else upsetting."

"Thanks," said Harry, "That'd be good."

"And when did you say the book launch was?"

"Next Thursday, 23rd, 6 pm at the Institute of Historical Research in Senate House. John's coming as well, so it won't just be historians."

"Do we have to dress up?"

"No, smart casual is fine. But I have to wear a suit."

"It'll be...nice. I'll look forward to it. See you then, then," said Molly and hurried out of the office.

I should have kissed her when she patted my hand, Harry thought. I should have stood up and gone over, and started kissing her, and not been scared. It hadn't just been the mortuary, and Molly's white coat, and the weakness in her legs, had it? She'd been scared of making a move on Molly. Scared. What had happened to her?

Staying sober has happened to me, she thought, and I'm no bloody good at seduction without the booze. She remembered what it was like before Clara. A glass or two, stilling the stammer, stilling the nerves, and she'd be up for trying it on with any woman she fancied, gay or straight, and she'd got away with murder sometimes. And even with Clara, she could always break through her frostiness with sheer determined cheek when a tiny bit high, make Clara feel the things she was sometimes too proper to feel. But now she wasn't allowed the feel of alcohol flickering through her veins, pumping self-belief through her system, so what the hell did she do? She'd hashed up her first conversation with Molly, and even though some historian-friendly Fate had given her a second chance, it had only been the residual alcohol that had given her the confidence to seduce Molly the next morning. To show that sweet, soft, gentle, strong woman that she didn't need a man to thrill her, she needed her, her fingers, her mouth, her knowledge.

Molly had enjoyed that. No, Molly had wanted that, at some level that probably neither of them quite understood, where bodies escaped from words, into biochemistry and sensations. But that didn't necessarily mean that Molly wanted her, Harry Watson, a small, nerdy dyke with a drink problem. Even if Molly did feel sorry for her. Particularly if she felt sorry for her...

She was almost glad to see Sherlock appear, just to derail her own train of thoughts.Almost, but not quite.

"What the hell did you think you were p-playing at?" she demanded, as he almost danced into the room, grinning down at her.

"Seeing how much of a mess you could make with a pint of fresh blood. Quite impressive, wasn't it? Though I hadn't planned you as an audience. Do you think the withdrawal syndrome encourages the fainting, or did you keel over like that at the sight of blood beforehand?"

"You're a sod, Sherlock, a bloody sod!"

"Not now, Harry, I am all cleaned up and so is everywhere else. You're safe to come out. But first, tell me, did you have any luck with Molly?"

"Don't know what you mean."

"You came to ask her on a date, did she agree? I always used to know immediately with John, you're a little trickier to read, but I'd still say yes, especially knowing Molly."

"It's n-none of your business."

"And did she agree before or after your collapse? Handy tactic, hadn't thought of it previously, appeal to Molly's protective side, which is strong, boosts her ego as well, she's in control, not you. Clever."

"I didn't do it on p-p-p-purpose!" Harry yelled.

"Not this time, no," he said, and he winked at her. "but worth remembering for next time, and I'm pretty sure there's going to be a next time, aren't you?"

"When I want your comments on m-my love life, I'll ask for them," said Harry firmly, and then rashly added. "It's not like you're some relationship expert."

"No point in having a row with me," Sherlock said cheerily, "you need to have one with Molly, get all the adrenaline pumping, then grab her and kiss her so hard it almost shatters her teeth. John's very good at that, I'm sure you are as well."

"I don't want to hear about you and John, and this is not a date. It's a book launch."

"You're right, that's definitely not a strange enough setting for a date involving a member of the Watson family. Unless, perhaps, you can stage a re-enactment of the Peterloo Massacre."

Harry abruptly decided to grin back, rather than thump him, at least she wasn't the only person who said completely stupid things in conversations.

"You're n-not going to be there, I'm n-not going to drink, it's going to be civilised, respectable, I am a reputable historian."

"Have you told Molly yet that the book's dedicated to Clara? Or did you change that at the proof stage?"

Oh shit, she'd forgotten that, how long it was since she's written the book, how long since the proofs, and even though she'd been divorced by the time they'd arrived, she hadn't known what to change it to, and they'd said only essential corrections...

"Should I tell M-M-M-Molly I'll dedicate my next book to her?" she asked.

"I thought you didn't come to me for relationship advice," Sherlock retorted.

"But is she interested?" That was a stupid thing to ask, she thought, and then remembered that Sherlock would take it as a factual question. There were a few seconds of stillness from the tall figure, his gaze intent on nothingness, as his mind clicked over.

"Her mouth...when they phoned down and said you were coming , she must have put lipstick on and then promptly scrubbedit off again. She's not sure whether you prefer her looking feminine, or whether to imitate your lack of make-up. I'd say interested, but uncertain. Do you know what proportion of UK homicides are alcohol-related?"

"No."

"At least 60%. A lot of those that take place in London end up with the results on the slabs here. As do the suicides, and the ones who fall out of windows when paralytic, and the ones whose livers simply pack in. Even Molly's going to be reluctant to get involved with an alcoholic."

"I've dried out. You watched m-me."

"Which is good, and I hope you stay that way. For one thing, it stresses out John a lot more than he lets on when you're drinking. Molly's a very light social drinker, if you do get together she could probably abstain, if that made it easier. Which is just as well, because the few times I remember her drunk, she was even more sentimental than usual. She once described me as having a beautiful soul."

"And what are you like when you're drunk?" Harry demanded, and then realised that wasn't the sort of question you asked. Fortunately, Sherlock obviously didn't realise that.

"Horrible. Arrogant and brutal, especially when I was doing cocaine as well. It's not easy being clean, Harry, but the alternative's not good either. The thing is, can you cope with cute animals?"

"What? Oh, you mean, M-Molly likes them."

"The dachshunds there," said Sherlock, with an expression almost like Harry's when she saw a car crash on TV. "She has a cat called Toby. She has been known to send e-mails as if written by Toby."

She also, thought Harry, has a sweet nature, a really nice bottom, and can tell you things about the physiological effects of hanging you wouldn't believe.

"I can cope with cats. I can even cope with fluffy bunnies," she said firmly.

"My god, true romance rearing its sugary head even in you," said Sherlock, with manic glee. "Of course, it's probably handy for you that's Molly's a sucker for anything small and with big eyes."

"Shut up." Harry said firmly, because she could see where this was heading. She got up from the chair and found, to her pleasure, that her legs weren't wobbly anymore. She advanced on Sherlock, glaring. He grinned back.

"I don't know why you're so desperate to deny the objective fact that you look cute," he said. "John's just the same, takes it as a personal insult if anyone says that. It's merely a genetic accident which gives you a mild evolutionary advantage, brings out the protective side in others."

"Like you?"

"I care more about protecting John than I ever have about any other human being."

Even Harry knew now was not the time to say anything. Sherlock swallowed, and went on determinedly, "And if you tell him, or anyone else that I said that, I will corrupt every single record of your Old Bailey database."

"No, you won't," Harry said hastily, "because you would m-miss it too much. I know n-now who spent the whole of Boxing Day last year looking at it, you forgot to m-m-mask your IP address."

"Mycroft was being particularly irritating, so I locked myself in the outside toilet at Mother's with my laptop and a box of liqueur chocolates."

"Do you like liqueur chocolates?"

"No, but Mycroft does."

He shouldn't be able to get her in fits of giggles like this, thought Harry, but somehow he always could.

"You're completely insane," she said at last. "And impossible. And bloody...just bloody."

"And yet, there is still someone mad enough to stick with me," said Sherlock, "and it's your daft brother. If I can make it with someone, you can too. I know you're still a mess, Harry, but you have got all that hapless, dogged Watson charm, so use it."

"I don't kn-know what Molly wants," said Harry, and now it didn't seem stupid to talk to Sherlock about it, because he might be shit at relationships, but he was surprisingly shrewd about people. His grin suddenly vanished.

"She goes for clever, screwed-up men," he said. "She always has, as far back as I've known her, when she was still on her first marriage. So you simply have to persuade her that clever, screwed-up women are just as appealing. Oh, and that you're not so screwed-up as to be beyond redemption."

"Am I redeemable?"

"You're not dead, you didn't have the DTs when you stopped, probably OK this time, but I wouldn't try too many more cycles of drinking, or you'll be back here with Molly cutting you up. Though I suppose they might want to get someone else to do the post-mortem, under the circumstances."

"You're scary sometimes, Sherlock."

"You mean I don't pretty up the truth enough? I thought you were tougher than that, Harry."

"I m-m-mean you don't really care if I live or die."

"I do, actually," Sherlock said, and there was an expression on his face, paler than ever in the harsh lighting of the mortuary, that Harry couldn't quite read. "And it's not just about John. It would be a waste of knowledge if you died prematurely. And doubtless distress a number of people unnecessarily. I think you ought to keep going even if things don't work out with Molly." Then he smiled again. "But I think she'll stick with you. She is remarkably persistent in her attachments, which has been handy at times. I hope she'll still make me coffee if she gets together with you."

"You are probably the m-most horrible man I know," said Harry with feeling.

"You've met Mycroft."

"Joint most horrible man."

"I am not being joined with Mycroft in any way."

"Would you rather be m-most horrible or second m-most horrible?" Harry asked. "Oh God. Can M-M-Molly really cope with this?"

"We're still a lot better than Paul Kablinski. I'll explain some time. But I suggest you go home now and do whatever it is historians do, because I've got more experiments to perform, and I don't need haemophobic arts graduates cluttering up the place by collapsing."

"You watch it, or you'll get Gibbon's _Decline and Fall_ so far up your archive you'll n-never get it out again," Harry replied, and stalked out before Sherlock could enquire what on earth that was supposed to mean.

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What better way for Harry to impress Molly than to invite her to the Institute of Historical Research? Cheap wine and nibbles, bad speeches, and far too many peculiar historians...

Harry was relieved when John and Molly arrived for the book launch, she'd half expected Sherlock to disrupt their plans at the last moment. Molly had a rather smart cream dress on, John was in his awful brown suit. But given that Harry was in her smartest trouser suit, and knew she still looked like a 17 year old boy going for a job interview, she was in no position to complain. Molly was here, it would be good, she could do this. She wondered for a moment if she should break the habit of a lifetime and try air-kissing Molly, and then stuck out her hand instead.

"Isn't this exciting?" said Molly. "And you've got copies of the book here?"

"Over here on the table," said Harry. "Actually, I wondered, would you like one? I get a few free copies I can give p-people." In reality, she'd already given away all her free copies, but Molly needn't know that she'd paid for this one.

"Thank you," said Molly. "And, er, would you sign it? Or is that not what you're supposed to do at this kind of thing?"

"I'd be happy to," said Harry, frantically scrabbling round for a pen. Why couldn't she have her belt-bag on, why did she have to wear these smart, useless clothes? At last she found one and thought, better be restrained. She carefully wrote: 'To Molly, with best wishes from Harry Watson."

It does look good, she thought as she handed the book to Molly. The stark black and white woodcut on the front contrasted with the bold scarlet letters of her name and the title: _Authentic Woman: Phoebe Phillips and Whore Biography_.

"Does John get a copy as well?" Molly asked.

"He's got his already, back at the flat. Except I suspect he hasn't opened it. You should have a look at chapter 8, John, there's some good m-man on man action." Oh shit, she thought as she saw John's face. Not a good start. She knew John got grumpy if you made too pointed remarks about gay men, despite having ended up with Sherlock. Why couldn't she keep her mouth shut? From the dirty look she was getting, John was about to retaliate. It wasn't so much that they didn't get on, as that they inevitably seemed to end up half-accidentally rubbing each other up the wrong way, always had.

"Well," said John smoothly, "I've looked at the acknowledgements, and I'm glad to see I get a mention at least. Given it's entirely thanks to me that you have a book to be launched." He turned to Molly. "Harry nearly managed to destroy the book when it was in draft."

"You said you weren't going to tell anyone," Harry protested.

"Molly has to hear this one, it's an absolute classic Harry disaster. It was some sort of editorial review, wasn't it? Just after I'd got back to London, they said she had to rewrite the first chapter completely. Harry flipped, and I got this text saying the book was no good and she was destroying it. I turned up her flat to find she'd deleted all her files, and had just started to burn the hard copy. When I appeared, she tried to put out the flames with her bare hands. So I took her along to Barts to be patched up, and only reminded her the next day that I had a complete backup of all her work that she'd insisted on giving me a week previously."

At least he hadn't said anything about her being drunk at the time, thought Harry, though it was a fairly obvious deduction. But as John looked coolly at her, she suddenly realised he wasn't trying to warn Molly off – he could have done that long ago, if he'd wanted to. He was reminding her just how near she'd come to blowing so many things.

She wasn't sure quite what to say, so she just murmured: "I'm afraid Chapter 1 is p-pretty crappy even after the rewrite, so if you do read the book, M-M-Molly, I'd suggest you skip that bit."

"I will read it," said Molly, "it looks interesting. But...are your hands OK?"

"My hands?"

"The accident. You burnt your hands, but they're OK now? No scarring?"

Her hands were unscarred, Molly knew that, had seen them, felt them...oh. She smiled at Molly. "They're fine now, no permanent damage."

"That's good, you have nice hands. The mortuary is horrible for your skin, so mine always look and feel hideous."

"You need to ask Sherlock about hand cream," John said unexpectedly. Harry gawped at him. "Seriously. He insists he has to keep the skin of his fingers soft, for maximum sensitivity when he's investigating, so he has some weird stuff he uses gallons of."

Best not to ask John exactly what Sherlock's hands felt like, Harry thought, and then Anna Maitland swooped down on her and dragged her away to talk about Covent Garden. She'd forgotten – it was her party, she had to talk to people other than Molly and John.

***

The speeches, which were the worst bit, were over quite soon. Mick, Professor Michael Dutton, who was brief and witty, and teasingly flattering about Harry. Someone from OUP, who she suspected hadn't read the book. Then Ruth Isaacs talking fiercely about paradigms and transgressive ruptures.Finally her, giving an embarrassed and barely coherent response, and only remembering at the last minute to tell people they had copies of the book for sale right now.

When she'd finished, she made a beeline for Molly, who was looking impressed, and John, who looked like he was trying to stifle hysterical laughter.

"Hold out your hand," he demanded, as she came over. "Come on."

"Only if you do," she retorted as she did. It was somehow weirdly comforting that John's hand was shaking slightly as well as hers, she hadn't been the only one stressed out by the last ten minutes.

"Are you always nervous about public speaking?" Molly asked kindly.

"I'm fine in lectures and talks n-normally," Harry said. "It's just talking about m-myself, and I n-n-never kn-know what to say when people are saying I'm wonderful."

"Wish I had that problem," said John cheerily, "but I really thought I was going to lose it when the OUP bloke was talking. Do they have special classes where historians learn to talk about 'whores' with an entirely straight face? Honestly, Harry, what a title. It's a good job Mum isn't here."

"It's a perfectly reasonable title," Harry replied. "And do you kn-know why it's 'whore biography'? Because I can actually say the bloody title and not stammer."

"Have you ever considered not writing about prostitution when you can't even say the word?" John demanded. Fortunately, before the whole thing degenerated completely, Molly broke in.

"So, um, who was Phoebe Phillips, and should I know about her? I didn't quite follow what they were saying..."

I must try and keep my answer to under three hours, thought Harry."In the Georgian p-period there's a sudden cluster of books written or supposedly written by disreputable women, courtesans, prostitutes. Phoebe Phillips' m-memoirs are one of them. People have presumed they were fake, p-possibly written by a m-m-man, a lot of the accounts are fictional. But I found records in the Old Bailey database that m-matched some of the incidents very closely, showed the book was based on the life of a woman called Phoebe M-Murray. And then I had incredible luck and found a cache of letters by M-Murray and her family. So we have her view, and the official reports, and her supposed m-memoirs and we can see how they all fit together, or tell different stories."

"You mean it's like if you've got lots of witnesses for a crime, you can compare their accounts?" said Molly.

"Just like that, except n-normally you never have enough evidence to kn-know clearly what happened back then. But just this once, we can really get a feel for what a woman of this class was like. I kn-know Phoebe Phillips, I understand her."

"That's amazing," said Molly.

"So much of it was luck," said Harry. "if it hadn't been for the fluke of those letters-"

"Which you spent years looking for," John broke in. "Every e-mail I got for about 18 months seemed to start: 'Hi, John, I'm in the archives' or 'I've just been in the archives', or 'I'm writing quickly before I go off to the archives.' And I probably don't need to read the book, I've heard so much from Harry about Phoebe Phillips over the years."

"I didn't know what else to write," said Harry. BecauseI didn't want to talk about the war, she thought, or tell you how scared I was about you. And you couldn't drink when you were in an archive or a library, it was easier then.She added: "But I am now through with Phoebe Phillips once and for all."

"Are you going to write about that highwayman?" Molly asked. "Highwaywoman, the one who dressed up as a man. You told me about her, him. I can't remember the name."

"Jack Hunter," said Harry. She'd told Molly about him at the party, hadn't she, and she'd remembered. Which was...wonderful. She felt a sudden wave of confidence. Molly thought she was interesting, well, thatJack Hunter was, at least. "I finishedhim off a few months ago, as it were, the article's in p-press right now." Mustn't offer her an advance copy, she'd already forced a whole book on the poor woman.

"The next thing I'm doing to do," she went on, "is something on murder and m-marriage. Husbands killing wives, wives killing husbands."

"You do have the most horrible taste in subjects, Harry," John said. "Have you ever thought of writing about normal, happy people?"

"They leave less evidence behind. And do Sherlock's cases have lots of happy, n-normal p-people in them?"

"Can't say they do," John admitted. "But prostitution and domestic violence-"

"P-people have always been interested in those," Harry said, "P-p-practically the first Greek play is about a wife killing her husband. And do you know the origin of the word 'p-pornography'?"

"No," said Molly.

"It's from the ancient Greek, means 'writing about whores'. I'm just following in a long tradition."

"So the next time someone asks me what my sister does," John said, smiling, "I should say you're a pornographer? How did I end up related to someone as crazy as you?"

"You live in a flat with body parts in the fridge," Harry retorted, " You have to hide Sherlock's experiments when I come round. I'm n-not taking lectures on normal from you. I'm sorry, Molly, we're just a strange family."

I've just been asked to give a talk at the next pathologists' annual meeting," said Molly brightly, "about making mortuaries more family-friendly."

John's face cracked fractionally before Harry's, and Molly's soon followed. I haven't seen Molly laugh properly, Harry thought, through her giggles, she probably doesn't get much chance to in her job. This was so wonderful, she wished this moment would last forever...

Which, of course, was the point at which John abruptly stopped giggling, and said: "Good job Clara isn't here." Harry would have thumped him, if Molly hadn't been watching.

"She wouldn't be pleased about the book?" asked Molly. "Even though it's dedicated to her?"

Fuck, thought Harry, but she could hardly explain about publishers' schedules.

"Me getting a book p-published she'd be p-p-pleased about, but n-not about a p-whore, because she likes n-nice history books about n-n-nice subjects."

"What was that one you had a terrific row about?" John asked. Why the hell had she let John come without Sherlock, it was actually turning out more embarrassing. "Clara's mother gave her the book as a present, and then she asked why you couldn't write something like that? Something about duchesses?"

"Georgiana, Duchess of Devonshire, Amanda Foreman's biography of her. I think they made a film of it as well," Harry said. "N-not my sort of history at all, but Amanda Foreman's glamorous enough to be a TV presenter, so Clara was impressed." That sounded bitchy, didn't it? "I mean Foreman's OK as a historian, don't get m-me wrong-"

"Wasn't she the one who posed naked for a photo once?" Molly asked, "behind a pile of her books? It was ages ago, but I remember that."

"Oh God, yes, I think she did," said Harry. She couldn't decide if she was pleased that Molly liked pictures of naked female historians, or worried that it was pictures of Amanda Foreman she liked. And John was just about to say something appalling, she knew he was. She kicked him on the ankle.

"Ow!" John yelped. "Stop that Harry, you've got to behave. We've got trouble coming. Look over there."

Harry looked round. The Director of the IHR, whom she rather liked. And Mycroft Holmes, whom she definitely didn't. What was that creep doing here?

"Good evening." Mycroft smiled insincerely, as he came up to them. "Please excuse me for having to interrupt your book launch so rudely, but I need to borrow Dr Watson. John, I mean." He added, with a twinkle that made Harry want to kick him to death, "It'll be handy when they finally promote you to Professor, Dr Watson, it'll save a lot of confusion."

He was an extremely well-informed creep, of course.

"There's n-n-nothing definite yet," Harry said, folding her arms, "and it m-may well n-not happen at all."

"Oh, I don't think Professor Trainor will change his plans now, at least I'm certainly not expecting him to," Mycroft replied smoothly. "I'm sorry I haven't had a chance to read your book yet, I've heard so much about it. Anthea's got the e-book version on order, but OUP are sadly slow in releasing it."

"So why do you need to borrow me?" John demanded, "given I'm a doctor, not a library book?"

"A certain important foreign personage has just arrived in this country. A member of the Elphbergfamily, you might remember having dealings with one of their subordinates a few months ago?"

"Oh, you mean-"

"No details, please," Mycroft broke in, "at least not here. But this person would like some more information on the results of Sherlock's activities. Your report was...on the sketchy side."

"I'm sure Sherlock can fill him in," John replied calmly.

"It is official Foreign Office policy that Sherlock does not meet any foreigner above the rank of count," said Mycroft. "If it were feasible, I'd prefer him not to meet any foreign dignitaries at all, you can't imagine the diplomatic incidents we've had over the years. If you were able to come right now, Dr Watson, Her Majesty's government would be grateful."

"It's n-n-not anything dangerous, is it?" said Harry, and could have kicked herself at that point.

"The only risk is that your brother may be bored to death," said Mycroft. "And I presume there's a certain danger of that for him here, as well."

"Not at all," John said cheerily, "We're just having an interesting discussion about pornography, dead people, and naked historians. I'll come quietly, shall I?" Mycroft snorted, and turned away, and John followed in his wake.

"Who was that?" Molly asked.

"Sherlock's brother. Have you not met him?" Harry asked. "His name's M-Mycroft, and he's something very important in the government and a pain in the...n-neck."

"I can see a resemblance now," said Molly, "though he's nothing like as good-looking as Sherlock, and he seemed much less nice."

Harry tried to think of a response to a sentence that included the words 'Sherlock' and 'nice' and failed. Besides, she was feeling particularly guilty, now that Molly had lost John for support.

"Are you finding it boring?" she asked. "I'm sorry, I probably shouldn't have invited you, it's just a load of historians talking shop, and I have to circulate and meet people."

"Well, my party did have Mike Stamford and Gareth Pritchard, so I can hardly complain," said Molly, "but I did get someone trying to tell me rather a lot about the Enclosure Acts...a bit more than I wanted to know, really."

My poor Molly, thought Harry, rapidly scanning the room. Was there anyone here working on something that wouldn't bore Molly to tears? Then she spotted the back of a huge figure with a crew-cut.

"Come over here and talk to my friend Scott," she said. "He writes about p-pirates."

"Pirates?"

"He'll tell you it's because he's interested in forms of democratic self-organising collectives, but actually I suspect he read the _Ladybird Book of Pirates_ or something similar as a kid and got hooked," Harry said. "Basically, a lot of us are historians because we want to dream about being m-more exciting people than we are. David Starkey would really like to be ruling England, Christopher Andrew wants tobe a spy...m-maybe Amanda Foreman dreams of being a duchess, for that m-matter."

"So do you secretly want to be a Georgian prostitute?" Molly asked, smiling tentatively.

Oh shit, thought Harry. Why is there no way of going back and editing my conversations?

"I want to be someone leading an interesting enough life that my m-memoirs are worth faking," she blurted out. "Not just a boring n-nerd sitting in a library."

"Oh, Harry," Molly said, with such tenderness in her voice that Harry could barely refrain herself from suggesting they went off for some historical re-enactment. (Even a lesbian could learn a lot from eighteenth-century erotica). But she was supposed to be behaving, so she took Molly over to Scott instead.

"Scott, this is Molly Hooper from Barts, she's a pathologist there. Molly , this is Scott McGrath, formerly of Tennessee, now of the University of Hertfordshire."

Scott smiled benevolently down at Molly. "You're from Barts? I was e-mailing your lot a few months ago, wanting to know how easy it was to kill a man by flogging him with a cat o' nine tails."

"It was you contacted Tamjid, was it?" said Molly, smiling back. "I don't think we could really find much information. Were the Wellcome any use?"

"They give me a bit," said Scott. "But I'd better explain the background. There's this privateer I'm interested in called Nine-fingered Hughes..."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Historians aren't like this at all, and nor are academic publishers.
> 
> Historical note: Several editions of 'Authentic memoirs of Phebe Phillips: otherwise Maria Maitland; well known in the vicinity of Covent Garden' were really published, and are available (for example, via the Eighteenth Century Collections Online database and in a recent collection of [whore biographies](http://www.pickeringchatto.com/major_works/whore_biographies_1700_1825)). The rest, however, is not history.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry's book has been launched, but can she now get herself and Molly out of the Institute of Historical Research unscathed? Especially when Molly's just met a pirate historian.

Molly was a really good listener, though Harry, as she slipped away from the conversation five minutes later. She could make you feel that what you said was important, fascinating. She'd almost been envious of Scott, as he started to explain to Molly how a labourer from Anglesey had ended up terrorising the coasts of Haiti. But Scott was happily married and...she mustn't start getting possessive about Molly. Certainly not when she didn't even possess her. She should, she didn't know what she should do. She should probably play it cool, but cool and sober was a surprisingly difficult combination. Meanwhile, she could see OUP's marketing person fixing a beady eye on her, she'd have to bite the bullet and go and talk to her.

***

When she eventually extricated herself – how could you segment a student market, and how painful was it? – she looked round automatically for Molly. She knew she ought to go and talk to Simon Dangerfield, but she couldn't face it yet. She stared around ineffectively for a while – why was everyone here so damn tall? – and at last spotted Molly, sitting in a corner, reading. I really have bored her, she thought miserably. She went over, and Molly looked up.

"Hi," Molly said, "Are you OK?"

Harry sat down beside her. "I've just had to explain to someone from OUP that I can't go on 'Woman's Hour' to p-promote the book. I said I was p-probably banned from appearing on it again."

"You've been banned from appearing on 'Woman's Hour'?" Molly asked, and Harry wasn't quite sure if she sounded stunned or impressed.

"I don't kn-know officially," said Harry, "but I suspect they wouldn't want to invite me after what I said last time."

"John said you found radio a bit difficult because of your stammer," Molly said cautiously. "And that you sometimes, um, tried to boost your confidence..." Her voice tailed off.

Never mind Georgian women killing their husbands, thought Harry, why didn't a few more of them murder their brothers? It would be entirely justified.

"I was sober!" she almost shouted. "Completely. I'd edited this book on women in prison through the ages, and they wanted me for a discussion with some government minister on p-prison policy. Only I was trying to avoid words starting with m-m-m-certain letters, so rather than saying that their p-policy was 'moronic and p-populist', I said it was 'cretinous and quasi-fascist', and things rather went downhill from there."

"Did they ever broadcast that?" Molly asked, gasping.

"No. It's p-probably in some BBC archive as an awful warning of who n-not to get on your p-p-programme."

"You are incredible, Harry," said Molly, smiling. "I'd never have the nerve to do something like that."

Not kissing her, not kissing her, not kissing her, Harry told herself firmly, and to distract herself asked, "So what are you reading?" She looked down, and then at last, it registered. "Oh God, it's my book, isn't it?"

"It was all getting a bit loud," said Molly, "I'm sorry, I'm used to the mortuary. And so I thought if I sat here and started reading, it'd make a nice change. And maybe I'd understand some of the conversations a bit better."

"You're reading chapter 1," Harry said, with sudden dread. "P-please don't read that, it's the boring theoretical bit, even I realise it's boring. Chapter 2 is m-m-much better."

"It's not boring," said Molly. Her hand reached out for Harry's, and then suddenly pulled away. "It's really not. It's, it's well written, I understood it, not like a lot of the feminist stuff I've read. You connect it up to real people, ordinary people, not just all these abstract terms, sexuality, and gender, and identities and so on."

"But it's still just words," Harry burst out, "And that's not enough. I talk about m-m-masculine and feminine, and gay and straight, and I use those words because I want to try and explain things clearly, but they're still just labels. They're too simplistic. Because it's really about p-people and people are so complex and mysterious, and uncapturable, and I don't know how to say the things I want!"

Molly was looking at her with a slight wariness now, a nervousness to her smile, and suddenly Harry knew that she thought Harry's speech was a prelude to making a move on her, and Molly wasn't quite sure if she wanted that, at least not right now. Back off, she told herself, and she gasped out: 'But I suppose a history book without words would be a bit strange, wouldn't it?"

"Definitely," Molly replied with relief, "and words are very...interesting."

"Yes," said Harry, "because their m-meanings change, and the same phenomena have historically been categorised in such different ways."Help, she was getting boringly theoretical again. "I m-mean the eighteenth century has all these ways of thinking about what we'd call sexual identity, tribades, and tommies, and mollies-"

"Mollies?"

Oh shit. "Well, a m-m-m-molly in eighteenth century slang is an effeminate m-man." It was one meaning of the word.

"When I was still at medical school," said Molly, "there was a play on at the National Theatre called 'Mother Clap's Molly House'. Some of my friends thought it was funny to give me flyers for that."

"Right," said Harry cautiously.

"So I went along to see it," said Molly. "It was...interesting. Unexpected."

"N-not very historically accurate," Harry said," But that's probably n-not the p-p-point, is it?"

"So you don't like historical plays?" said Molly, smiling.

"I once threw a book at the TV during the dramatisation of M-Moll Flanders. Did you see that? The one with that red-headed actress from ER?"

"I could never bear to watch ER," Molly replied. "Not even for the sake of George Clooney."

Probably not a good move to get into discussions of which TV stars we fancy, thought Harry, if I'm arguing that gay and straight are just arbitrary labels. Anyhow, she actually had a cue.

"Do you like going to the theatre?" she asked.

"Yes," said Molly, "Maybe we could go and see a show together?"

"Is there anything on at the moment you fancy?"

"Well, I do like musicals," said Molly, "and there is, I haven't seen it yet, and I'd quite like to...'Love Never Dies', the sequel to 'Phantom of the Opera', it's on at the Adelphi."

I love her enough even for Andrew Lloyd Webber, thought Harry. "If you can get tickets, I'll be happy to come," she said. "or have you seen 'Chicago'?"

"I went ages ago," said Molly, "but we could go again, it was fun. But I did feel so sorry for Amos, especially when he was singing 'Mr Cellophane'."

When I saw it, I wantedto be Billy Flynn, because he wowed all the girls, thought Harry, and hastily said: "If you want to find out about tickets for 'Love Never Dies', I'm free m-m-most evenings."

"That's, that's good," said Molly. "Harry, I think there's someone over there trying to get your attention."

"Oh help," said Harry, as she reluctantly looked away from Molly, "It's Professor Dangerfield from Oxford. I've got to talk to him, and I really don't want to. He doesn't believe in sex."

"What?"

"I m-mean, he doesn't think that historians should write about sex, it's n-not important enough."

"Could you say you're researching murder now?" Molly asked. "Or is that not important enough either?"

"You're wonderful, M-M-Molly, thank you so much. I'll go and talk to him about m-murder."

***

She didn't know why, but after that it suddenly gelled. She explained to Simon Dangerfield what he needed to do to sort out his database, and he told her about an interesting uxoricide in Twickenham. And then Ruth Isaacs was saying that she was organising a conference in New York and would Harry be able to come and speak. And someone mentioned something about the York Cause Papers that had her rapidly scribbling down ideas about continuity and change of women's experience on the back of an order form. If that was right, then her chronology would actually work, and she knew someone who could tell her the canon law stuff she'd need to check...

She finished her writing, decided her notes would be legible and comprehensible in the morning, since she'd written then whensober, and felt a sudden emptiness. An almost literal emptiness. Her bloody brother had been right, she should have eaten something beforehand. And the nibbles were probably long since gone. She looked around, realised that no-one else was queuing up to speak to her, and tried to work out what to do next.

She was beginning to feel tired, the noise, and the heat, and the nervous tension getting to her. It suddenly felt like hard work. But Jo Rider, and Anna, and Chris and the others from the long eighteenth century seminar gang were over in the corner, roaring with laughter. They were probably discussing films by now, and Chris would be giving his scathing denunciation of the latest blockbuster. You didn't need to see most films, once you'd heard Chris on them. She'd go over, and have a laugh with Chris and the others, and maybe some wine to unwind, because she'd earned it. Just one glass. She turned, and headed for the table with the drinks on at the back of the room, and suddenly there was Molly, sweet and creamy in her cream dress, with a glass in her hand. A glass in each hand, orange juice in both.

"I saw you and I thought you might be getting thirsty," Molly said, and her voice was soft. "It's...it's very hot in here. Or they said they could possibly do coffee, if you'd prefer that. If that'd...help."

"Thank you so m-much," Harry said, and as she gulped down the juice, she thought, to hell with Chris and the rest, not this time, not yet. She looked across at Molly, and opened her mouth to say: I want to spend my entire life with you, and despite me being an alcoholic, with your love I will overcome that, and we will live happily ever after that, even though you still think you're mostly straight. And then she realised that was a bit much, no far, far too much, for what was, on the most generous reckoning, their second date.

"Are you OK?" asked Molly. "You look a bit...overwhelmed."

"I'm fine," she said. "But I'm sorry, this is all probably a bit m-much for you. All these historians."

"No, I'm fine," said Molly. "What would you like to do now? I suppose we can't really leave yet, it would be a bit rude."

Harry's brain, distracted by the 'we', fumbled for the correct answer, because 'get you in a corner and snog you till they throw us out' was obviously not appropriate. And then she heard her own voice, from some stupidly disconnected part of her brain, say: "Plague pits."

Why was she allowed out alone? Except Molly was smiling, and saying: "Bubonic plague?"

"Black Death, 1349, they uncovered burial p-pits recently in Smithfield, P-Pauline Carr over there in the corner kn-knows all about it, was on the dig." It was barely coherent, but somehow Molly understood.

"I read something once that said the Black Death possibly wasn't caused by bubonic plague," she replied. "Is that true?"

"I don't know," said Harry, "not my period. Pauline's the p-p-person to ask."

"Then let's go and find out about plague pits," said Molly, still smiling, and together they started to make their way through the crowd.

END 


End file.
